


Happy Birthday, Mr. Eames

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Eames doesn't expect a lot of the things that happen on his 37th birthday. Featuring cake, nudity, handcuffs, and enigmas.





	Happy Birthday, Mr. Eames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brookebond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/gifts).



> For @brookebond‘s birthday, based on a set of emojis* I randomly selected to wish her bonne anniversaire! Happy Birthday, Ms. Bond!
> 
> *cake, wine, naked Arthur, handcuffs

“Are you comfortable?”

Eames glances down at himself. He can’t say with one hundred percent accuracy that this is how he’d imagined spending his 37th birthday, but he has no complaints.

Well, he has one complaint.

“Why are you naked and I’m not?” he asks while Arthur leans over to fork up another chunk of mango cheesecake. Eames’ gaze slides over the smooth angles and curves thus presented, his cock hardening further in his trousers. Trousers that he is now trapped in, given the cuffs restraining him to the headboard.

Arthur hums noncommittally, turning back around to brush the creamy dollop over Eames’ lips, streaking them with rich crumbs. Eames extends his tongue to welcome the intrusion, not taking the cake in so much as licking it off the tines lasciviously. Arthur shivers, then grins.

“Maybe I like you like this, all tied up and at my mercy,” Arthur says. “Maybe I want you to appreciate your birthday present before you get your hands on it.” He sits back on his heels and raises his arms over his head, posing demurely.

“I would have liked to unwrap it, but you’ve beaten me to the punch there, love,” Eames rumbles, hungrily devouring Arthur’s skin with his eyes. It glows in the low light of the room, gilded and golden and edible. He trails his tongue along his lower lip, swipes away the remnants of the cake.

“Want more?” Arthur asks, again leaning away towards the plate, putting his lean musculature on display. Eames lurches towards him instinctively, only to be jerked back by the fixed points of his wrists in their cold cuffs. He wants to bear Arthur down to the bed, press him against the sheets and paint the thick, sweet paste all over that silken skin. Lick it off until Arthur’s writhing and crying out for respite.

His eyes widen when Arthur appears to read his mind.

His long fingers have scooped up half the remaining slice and he holds it up in front of him with a considering look on his face. Then he closes his eyes and drags his fingers down his chest, streaking himself with faintly golden smears and raising them to his mouth to suck on them. Eames’ eyelids flutter–Arthur is never this unselfconsciously seductive. It’s an incredible treat to see him this way, and he concedes internally that the cuffs were an excellent idea, because otherwise he’d have cut short the show with his lustful impatience.

As it is, he has no choice but to ride it out. His cock tents his trousers and he shifts to get some relief but there is none to be had, just blood throbbing in his veins and Arthur pinning him with his hot gaze.

Then Arthur is in his space, a breath away from him as he straddles Eames’ upper thighs, his chest and its sticky sweet stripe within striking distance of his mouth. It’s only too clear what Arthur intends, so Eames complies, touching the tip of his tongue to taste the tangy richness and the heavenly skin underneath. Arthur raises himself up as Eames flattens his tongue, so it skates down Arthur’s torso towards his belly, and lower. Eames is just about to flick the head of Arthur’s cock, where a pearl of precome wells up like sugary glaze, when Arthur gasps and backs away.

Eames strains to follow him, an embarrassing sound of disappointment leaving his throat. But Arthur pays no mind, instead palming the last of the cake and reaching behind himself.

“Oh Arthur, you wouldn’t,” Eames breathes, but it appears that Arthur would.

Arthur smirks and turns to present his arse–and oh, Arthur has.

The remainder of his birthday cake is a wide stripe down the cleft of Arthur’s bum and Eames’ mouth waters even as a startled laugh bursts out of him. Arthur doesn’t even bother to acknowledge this as he straddles Eames’ backwards, his cheeks shoved up into Eames’ face.

Eames strains forward, only able to swipe the first layer off, forcing the rest deeper inside. Arthur adjusts, pulls his cheeks apart and Eames can see there really isn’t much cake after all, but there’s a hell of a lot of lube, and the gleam of a metal buttplug. He growls and Arthur rears back so that Eames’ face is buried between his cheeks. The cake is an afterthought now, all he wants is to remove that plug and sink his tongue as far into Arthur’s little pink hole as he can. As if to encourage this line of thought, Arthur squirms and shoves back a fraction. Eames can take a hint.

He can also take a buttplug out with his teeth, and he does. But first he uses his tongue and teeth to thrust the plug upwards, where it makes contact with that sweet bundle of nerves. Arthur groans and sighs and wriggles and Eames worries that he’s not going to be able to last, but what a way to go, Arthur all filthy with Eames’ birthday cake, his very favourite kind, dancing on Eames’ tongue like the gorgeous animal he is.

When he’s satisfied that he’s teased Arthur’s prostate sufficiently, he grips the base of the plug with his incisors and pulls slowly, slowly enough to feel the way Arthur’s hole clenches around it, trying to keep it in. It pops free after a moment and Eames lets it fall unheeded to the sheets. His whole attention is now on that loosened ring of muscle. When it’s like this, a little relaxed, a little receptive, Eames loves to tease it, suck on just that little bit of slack, then drive his tongue in and french Arthur’s lovely hole, just fucking make out with it.

Arthur, he knows from the last time (the first time) he did this, fucking loves it. Within minutes, he’s making a high-pitched, desperate noise, gasping for air. “Fuck, Eames–nngh, yes, like that. God, I love–love you like this.”

Eames feels a jolt of excitement at that admission. Arthur isn’t the most demonstrative person he’s ever fucked on a semi-regular basis. So hearing that he _loves_ anything about Eames is… flattering, to say the least. Not to mention this whole scenario, which Arthur must have planned out.

“You’re so fucking desperate for it,” Arthur groans. “My ass, you’re fucking crazy for it, fuck yes.”

At that, Eames finds himself pulling back, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline. He starts to speak and has to clear his throat. “Excuse me, darling, I’m pretty sure you’re the desperate one in this situation.” He punctuates this with a deep, searching swirl inside Arthur, tasting mango and musk and _Arthur_.

But instead of being rewarded with more delicious grinding and mewling, Eames is suddenly deprived of Arthur’s arse as he pulls away and turns around, on his knees over Eames with one hand supporting himself on the headboard and the other hand grazing the length of Eames’ clothed erection. Eames bucks into the touch, eyes rolling back in his head, an undignified noise escaping him.

“Are you sure about that?” Arthur doesn’t wait for an answer, which is fine by Eames as he’s pretty sure his brain just shorted out. Deft fingers shove his trousers down his thighs and free him from his now-soaked boxer-briefs, and then Arthur is poised over him, sinking down on his cock more quickly than should be humanly possible, but as Eames realizes he should know by now, with Arthur all things are possible.

“Oh fuck,” he says, and then Arthur sticks his tongue down Eames’ throat and undulates on his cock and, well, fucking hell this might be the best fucking birthday a man ever got.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Eames,” Arthur sighs after he’s athletically fucked Eames to a very loud completion. He fists his own cock and the look on his face as he’s getting close is the final straw. Those hooded eyes, enigmatic mouth twitching into a smile then going slack with pleasure– it all combines to look unbearably fond and intolerably aroused, and Eames finally twigs what’s going on.

Arthur may not have intended to bestow the gift of self-knowledge, but Eames has received it all the same.

He really did not expect to spend his 37th birthday handcuffed, smeared in cake and in love. But here he is, anyway.


End file.
